


build god, then we'll talk (what a wonderful caricature of intimacy)

by fiddleogold_againstyoursoul



Series: he loves me (not) [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anger, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bigotry & Prejudice, Discrimination, Gen, Graphic Torture, Graphic Violence, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, Major character death - Freeform, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, War, bias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul/pseuds/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul
Summary: The slow dissecting of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, as told from the latter's perspective./There are no raindrops on roses and girls in white dressesIt's sleeping with roaches and taking best guessesAt the shade of the sheets and before all the stainsAnd a few more of your least favorite things/Different universe than that of frostbite and numb.READ THE TAGS.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@affleckslut on IG ;)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40affleckslut+on+IG+%3B%29), [truedinosaur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/truedinosaur/gifts).



> Please take note that as this is from Bucky's point of view, this fic may contain hints of bias. Examples include German as a "sharp, ugly" language and an underlying sense of homophobia towards both himself and the brimming feelings. Also, graphic torture. PTSD is very heavily touched on, and how he deals with that trauma. 
> 
> There is army slang, of which "translations" I'll put at the end. And terms/references I may add, too.

You know Stevie's a ladies' man, even if they don't show him as much attention as they should.

And they  _should._

Tiny hips and big blue eyes that are lashed just enough, a head of blond hair that turns dark in water and faint freckles on his cheeks that stand out more when he blushes. Stevie's an Apollo if you ever saw one, the beautiful Sun driving your heart straight into the abyss of Tartarus.

He'e sensitive. He's patriotic. And goddamn if he doesn't love conflict, thrive off of it, the devil's advocate in every argument yet almost jumping at the chance to show his own opinions: his fists may smash into unrelenting faces faster than rain falls on the earth, but he's also the Martin Luther King of the asthmatics, of the boys who're too sick to even show up to class sometimes, to the boys who need almost monthly checkups so they don't go dizzy and faint dead away; you can be the audience he gives speeches to as he stands on the soap box, passionate and fervent and  _Steve._

You can be the only person who claps after he's finished and your blood rises to your head in one large, heady  _roar,_ and the only person to call him an idiot when he's being one and rumple up his perfect blond hair.

_And my God, could I be._

 

* * *

 

'What're you drawing?'

He shies away from you, annoyed; he lifts a hand to try and shield his pencil sketch. You pry it from him anyway. It's a caricature of a pretty girl: large eyes like in those Asian cartoons, thimble hips and breasts out to the moon. 'It's a commission. Man wanted it for his sweetheart. Buck, give it back.'

You let your eyes linger on it even as you pass it back.

'You're goddamned good at drawing tits, you know that?'

'The hell kinda question is that? Your ma would have your hide,' Steve says, but he's grinning, ears pink. He gets riled up so easy, but he never really gets mad at you. Sometimes you're irritated by that. Sometimes you wish he would just snap and slug you over the face, so you knew how goddamned stupid and far-fetched the idea of his ever being anything close to you was. 'I'm writin' to her.'

'No, you ain't, you wouldn't dare.' 

'I dare plenty.'

You jab him in the ribs and he yelps, hands immediately dropping to take refuge from your attacks. Steve's so goddamned sensitive, he is, and so fragile: when you grab him like this and tickle, it feels like you're holding an entire universe in your hands. Your entire universe. He sneezes, and you laugh.

 _'Buck,_ I got work to do -  _aah!_ Screw off!'

Your lips ghost by his neck when he scrambles out of your grip, and you shudder - but only for a moment, and you're shaking it off, aware of how the blood is rushing south. He's already making for his table. One day you'll break every goddamned pencil in the house, you will, if it means Steve Rogers will finally pay attention to you.

You sneak out of the room, breathing heavily, and make a beeline for the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't agree to double dates that much anymore, which both pisses you off and relieves you.

_Don't have to look at his gal and think, fuck, I could be twice as good a husband for Stevie than you._

'I've got work,' Steve says, wrapping his arms around his chest. 'It's fine, you've been workin' all week, you can afford to take the night off, but Buck - I really have too much to do. The deadline's loomin' over my head.'

'It's not the same without ya, Steve.'

He looks at you, eyebrows furrowing for just a moment. You feel your heart skip, do a little dance in your ribcage, and you're ever so aware of every splotch of colour on Steve's face. You've seen him mix skin colours, before: red, ultramarine, yellow and white, and you can make out every dash of them on his face. His eyes are like sky-blue marbles. 

'Go show your gal a good time.'

You end up staggering home hopelessly drunk at the crack of dawn, pulling your coat over the hickeys on your neck. Steve doesn't notice them, but he smiles at you before you leave for the factory. You feel red burning hot inside of you: you wish he'd notice. You wish it so goddamned bad.

_Nah, I don't wish that he'd notice. Not really, anyway._

_(I wish that he'd care.)_

Your work is half-hearted, that day. Sometimes it feels like all of you is.

 

* * *

 

till the end o' the line, you tell him, and he shoves you so hard you nearly fall off the doorstep.

 

* * *

 

Winter rolls around and there's echoes of rumours about war, but for now, it's still a long way for both of you.

You get a flat downtown, a rundown old place that smells of mothballs and with leaky sinks and faucets and a radiator that fuckin' whistles at night, but it's yours, and you love it. You love being in it. With Steve, with Steve's drawings, with Steve's clothes hanging in the achy breaky wardrobe you share.

The days get colder and shorter, and you end up tumbling into bed earlier, faster, eyes shutting as soon as you hit the sheets. Not even how Steve kicks the blankets off the bed will jar you from your sleep, though you do wake up with a raging hard-on whenever he presses too close at night and you can smell the scent of his soap from where his face is buried in your neck. Lysol. Like always. 

'You'd better not get goddamned sick,' You say one night, when Steve is particularly stubborn about only wearing one layer. 'We can't afford no medical bills, and you know how much they charge these days.'

It takes some more persuasion -  _Stevie, please, you know how cold it can get at night_ \- and only then he wraps up: three layers of cotton, however faded, and your jacket to boot. When you see him, small and beautiful in your jacket at least three sizes too big that smells of sex and alcohol and bad decisions, your heart leaps into your throat.

'- don't drool on it, yeah?'

'I don't drool,' He shoots back, annoyed, and you grin. 

He doesn't wake up sneezing in the middle of the night like he always does. You don't wake up just for the sake of pulling a blanket over his skinny ass so he doesn't freeze to death. You still spoon, though, his head beneath your chin and your arms tucked tight around his waist. Sometimes you wonder about that, how close you sleep. The day after you start wondering you stop spooning. Steve doesn't ask again.

But from then on, he wears your jacket to sleep. It tugs at your heartstrings whenever you wake up to find the leather pressed into his nose and his lashes fluttering against soft snores. It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. You couldn't be the warmth he needed, anyway. 

 

* * *

 

i ain't tryin' to prove myself to you, he says, angry, and it's a knife to your stomach, twisting, twisting. i ain't tryin' to prove myself to anyone. there are people out there laying down their lives for this country, Buck. ain't right for me to do any less.

you've never given a damn how this country runs itself, you want to scream back. it's never done nothin' for you.

don't win the war till i get there.

i'm fightin' the war for you, ya dumb idiot.

 

* * *

 

You send him letters, from the trenches. Some never make it. Some are lost under layers of blood and other fluids, splattered by stale meals and drowned in cheap liquor. Others are never meant to reach his eyes.

 _~~Dear~~ _ ~~~~_Steve_

~~_How is it going?_ ~~

~~_I hope you're doing fine._ ~~

_One of the things I miss most about Brooklyn is the food. ~~And you, of course, you stupid punk.~~ The food here is disgusting. The rations are running out and the supplies don't come half as fast as they should. We get rotting fruit and canned meats, and there are donations of food and clothing, but nothing here is new. The best food is probably the canned peaches. Sometimes we can spare some sugar or honey for the bread. It's rock hard and dry._

_I miss ~~you~~ home, you know. The first time I killed a man wasn't what I expected. I thought there'd be less blood, like in the gorey films we used to go see at the Rugby. He jumped one of ours and gut him like a fish, Steve, I never saw such a thing in my life. I didn't think. I don't even know if I meant for it, but I grabbed my .45 and shot him in the head. He went down just like that. No special effects, no slow mo. They reassigned me to sniper duty, and it's a lot less messy. Should I feel guilty for killing him? Did he have a family back home, kids that were writing to him, too? For what's worth it, I hope he doesn't. I don't know if guilt is a good feeling to carry around especially in wartime._

_I wish I could send you more letters. I think some of yours get held up: what the hell do you put in them? Give my love to my ma._

~~_Your_ ~~ _Bucky_

 

_Dear Steve_

_It's cold as balls out here so you'd better be wrapping up tight._

_Tell Ma and my sisters that it's hard to send letters to them. It's hard to get letters from girls at all with the boys all thinkin' it's another sugar report. It's kinda cute, anyhow. Send them my love. I'll be writing them soon._

_Are you still trying to enlist? Steve, you're my best friend but you're one big pain in the ass, you know that? I'm out here fighting for you. Only thing that keeps me going, you know. I can't pretend that I'm not in love with you anymore. I'll never send this letter anyway._

_I love you. Stay safe._

_Your Bucky_

* * *

 

'We can't win,' Dugan says, as the Mae Wests roll in. 'I ain't goin' home wrapped in a fuckin' flag. Put your paws up.'

'You heard him, Barnes! Get your fuckin' ass down here!' 

You look out over the battlefield from your sniper position on the second floor - the tanks and the German soldiers pouring out from them, yelling in their sharp, ugly language - the rain pouring down onto your aching bones, and you're filled with despair. 

_what happened to the end of the line the end of the line the end of (?)_

They shout in rapid German, dragging every last one of you out. One of you - he's only a boy, one of the mitt floppers you'll laugh about over pints after lights out, small and dark-haired and so, so young yet - tries to make a run for it, and they shoot him to pieces, the shots ringing out in the open space. You close your eyes when he falls. You don't want to see, anymore.

_'Schluss mit lustig! Du ergibst dich, ich liefere dich aus. Leben. Wenn Sie nicht sterben, werden Sie einen Heidenspaß haben.'_

You don't understand what he's saying, but you get the gist of it. They truss you up like chickens ready for the night's soup and march you off. You don't remember when defeat has ever tasted like this: blood caked between your teeth, the sting of the cold rain on wounds not properly treated. They throw you into dirty cells, with dirtier inhabitants, and the guards stand outside, drinking and talking about the  _makkaroni,_ their Italian allies. You close your eyes and lean against the brick wall. You've already been separated from your team, you don't know where they are. If they even are alive.

_what does that mean? alive_

_when everyone else is dead (no that's not true)_

_what does it mean anymore?_

You fight back when they come for you, hauling you up onto trembling feet and dragging you out of the miserable cell. The guards laugh, short and barking like the fucking mother tongue they speak, and kick you: they don't care where or how hard, but you do. You scream at them and they only laugh.

_'Beeil dich!'_

_Hurry._

Eventually, you stop struggling when they send you to work, the weapons facility where you meet your friends, again. Life is funny, sometimes. Then one day you fall sick and everything falls apart from there. Life is funny, sometimes. 

They strap you to a table.

The scientist doesn't step out at first. He's got funny little goggles on his funny little head and a funny little smile plastered over his funny little face. He's a funny little man, but you're not laughing when he brings out the syringe. Life is funny, sometimes.

_No one knows I'm scared of needles._

_T.S., soldier. T.S._

Steve got a serious stomach infection once, and he spent the entire week in hospital, with little needles poking out of him and blue and white fluids running through his arms. You remember looking at him and both wanting to tear away and stare forever. You remember feeling hopeless. You never liked blood tests: the nurses were never gentle, and you had to bite back any noise because you were supposed to be the tough one in your family. When your Pa was at the tavern getting drunk and talking about  _those fucking Jews._ You were supposed to be the one who protected everyone else.

You don't cry out when he pushes the needle into your skin, but you do when it starts to burn.

 

* * *

 

There was one time when you stumbled home drunk as the fucking devil and Steve was up, light flickering beside him on the table and his pencil slowly scratching over the paper of his sketchbook.  

'Buck,' He said. 

You moved towards him, thinking of the girl at the bar. Her lips on your skin, sticky from lipstick and the humidity, dragging slowly over the parts of you unconcealed by the collar of your shirt. Her fingers, tangling in the back of your hair, her voice in a husky whisper.  _Oh, darlin', I'm afraid I'm not looking for some company tonight. And such a shame, too._

'Such a shame,' You echoed, and Steve's eyebrows furrowed as you stepped up to him, so close you were breathing in the scent of his soap. 

'What the hell are you -'

You kissed him.

His lips parted in silent surprise, warm and soft and nothing like any girl you'd ever kissed before - _that's cos he's not a fucking girl what the fuck are you doing you're not a queer what the fuck get away from him right now -_ and you leaned deeper into it, inhaled him like he was the only oxygen left in the room. His hands pawed at your chest: you felt the fingers curl against your shirt, wanting to push and yet not. It was fucking killing you. Steve Rogers was fucking killing you.

You pulled away and his mouth was still open. Pink, wet, looking like it'd just gone through hell. And by God if you didn't want to kiss it again, kiss it till Steve was gasping and till 

'Steve, I don't -'

What would you say? What was there to say? His lips moved, but no sound came out.  _You're fucking killing me, Steve Rogers._

You stood there in the dark till Steve got up, blowing out his candle and pushing past you to his room. Your room. You didn't think you wanted to sleep with him tonight. Not in the same bed, though you'd done that since you were fucking kids. Though Sarah Rogers herself had always loved to see the both of you "not roughhousing for once" and playing nice. You couldn't sleep with him. You were drunk, and you smelled of perfume and hookers. Steve smelled of lysol. He always did. He turned to you as he passed by, and the moonlight caught in his eyes for just a moment before it died away and he left.

You balled your fists.

 _This is the first time I kiss Steve Rogers,_ you thought. 

But not the last. Oh, no, Fate isn't as cruel as that.

 

* * *

 

 The blade dances over your sternum, pricks of blood already appearing on your skin, and you stifle the cry out. There is no use. The scientist continues, regardless, that funny little glimmer in his funny little eyes.

 _'Steve,'_ You scream when the blood inside you boils with whatever's in those fucking needles.  _'Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve -'_

Saying a word too many times makes it lose its meaning. A name is even worse. You know how many Steves are out there today? Fuck, billions of them. Steves. Not your Steve, though, oh no, that would be cruel, having more than one Steve Rogers in a universe that contained Bucky Barnes. 

The scientist likes it when you scream. Sometimes you black out. Sometimes you flashback. Sometimes you're hanging on to this instance of reality and the next and you don't even know what is real anymore. There's blood coming out of your ears and trickling down your eyes, like tears, except it's red and sticky and when it dries it cakes and there's some between your teeth from where you gnawed into the flesh of your cheek. You twist and turn and when you do blackout it's only a moment's worth of bliss before your body shakes itself awake again. Constant vigilance, they drilled into you.

_You're fucking killing me_

_(steve?)_

 

* * *

  

Gunshots. And ringing.

You open your eyes.  _Oh._ Steve.

'I missed you,' You say, smiling up at him. In a moment he'll disappear. In a moment he'll bend down and kiss you and you'll scream at him for the queer he is and then he'll dissipate into smoke like he always does and it'll just be you again on the table as the funny little scientist tests his new poison on you. 'I missed you, so fucking much, Steve Rogers.'

He's too big for Steve. At least two heads taller than you last saw him, and really fucking wide, too: those shoulders are the size of two dames in themselves. But it's Steve's face and Steve's eyes and by God, if it's not the most painful vision you've had yet.

'I'm getting you out of here,' He says back, and he sounds like he's choking.

You let him pull you away. He rips off the restraints on your wrist - there are bruises from where the clamps and rope bit into your skin - and hauls you upright. Your knees don't hold you, and neither does your stomach. You drop to the ground and promptly vomit over Steve's shiny black boots.

'Buck -'

_Please let this be real please let this be real please_

You don't even know what you're vomiting. You haven't had solid food since...since the cells. Since the trenches.  

Steve's arms slip between yours. It feels so wrong: it feels so foreign, so pathetic, being tossed around like this, as light as a ragdoll. He hauls you up, again, grunting, and you wonder if this was what he felt when you pulled him out of gangfights in alleyways, after runnin' his fuckin' mouth like always and getting into trouble. You close your eyes as you hear other voices, shouts, more gunshots. If this isn't real, time will tell.

The blood boiling in your veins knows better.

 

* * *

 

You live between hurting and healing.

Scarf down half-warm greens and empty entire bowls of soup even though it makes your stomach all wobbly, to have actual food inside. Stitch yourself up, watch every bruise fade slowly to a dark purple that soon becomes most of the skin under your uniform. Replace every broken tooth. It ain't the same to push your tongue around your set of wooden chompers, but then again, nothing is ever the same. Not ever again.

Steve's a fuckin' Captain, now. You don't know what was in the juice they put into him, but hell if it didn't do wonders. 

It did more than just give him a growth spurt, though. You see the cocky confidence once staring out at you from a dirty mirror. You see the easy way he talks and walks, the looks he and that certain Peggy Carter exchange. And his fucking tights, oh, you're gonna have to go to Mass three times a week just to get the thoughts of Steve Rogers in those fucking tights out of your head.

Sometimes you roll over in bed to hug someone that isn't there. 

You'll see him at debriefings - though they've never let you into combat situations yet - and at mealtimes, in his fucking uniform with his badges pinned on real nice and his blond hair combed over his forehead. Who taught him how to comb his hair back like that? - it was always a careless mop when you knew him. You'll see him walking and laughing with superiors and new friends, and you'll see him taking control and you'll see him living.

Sometimes it's hard to place the Steve of Brooklyn and Captain America as the same person.

Whenever he sees you, catches you staring, his face will go all funny, like he's holding back a torrent of emotion he doesn't know how to express. And that's okay. That's okay, because you can't, either: you think it'll catch, your voice, your words, rough at the edges as they spill over trembling lips. 

_You remember when I kissed you, Stevie? Drunk and stinkin' and absolutely goddamned horrible?_

It's not right. It ain't right, it isn't: your Pa would say it's the Jew blood in ya, not right, making you sick in the head, you fuckin' pig,  _just like your mother._ Steve says your family is fine. You don't write them anymore. You wonder if they stopped caring if you wrote, and when. 

It ain't right, wanting to kiss Steve Rogers.

_but goddamn, if you do._

 

* * *

 

'Hey.'

He settles down across from you. At the table he was sitting at, someone boos good-naturedly. Peggy Carter raises an immaculate eyebrow and forks a cherry tomato. You feel the tips of your ears going red and hot.

'Hey, Steve.'

'We haven't talked in a while.' Steve looks down at his plate. You lift your eyes to his, try to decipher the tangle of emotions caught between your gazes. Maybe sometimes humans are too simple creatures for each other. 'I, well, I was busy. I'm sorry. Are you sleeping well?'

'Cut the small talk, Rogers.' You don't know why you're angry. You bite it back. 'I missed you. Period.'

He stares at you. 

'Buck, I -'

'You like her? Agent Carter.'

'She's, um - she's pretty, yes, but -'

'Go sit with her.' You stand up. The anger licks at your insides, eats you alive. Though it's not really anger, is it? - it's jealousy. Burning you from the inside out. 'I'm fine, buddy. Enjoy yourself.'

'Buck,' He grabs you by the arm, and you freeze over.  _Needles. The scientist._ It must be the look on your face, because he lets go immediately. '- sorry. I - look. We need to talk. Period. I don't care where, but if you're gonna make me shout it out in the dining hall, I'm gonna goddamned do it,  _buddy.'_

You stare at him.

_(You forget he has anger, too. It's lived inside of him for a long, long time now. You've seen it for yourself. All that anger, it ain't good for no one.)_

 

* * *

 

'I missed you. I tried, every day, to get you back.'

'Why did you volunteer? You were sick.' You think about Steve, strapped to a table. Or did they inject it into him? Or offer it up to him in a chalice, because that is the only cup fit for those pretty pink lips, all plump and soft and  _fuck,_ if you aren't the biggest fucking queer in the universe right now. And for someone who's the face of godliness, purity. America's favourite poster boy. 'You knew about the risks. I can't believe you did that. Must have thought yourself so fuckin' brave, huh? Some BTO?'

'Is that what you're mad about? You weren't there to hold me back.'

'I was supposed to take all the stupid with me,' You say, and your voice cracks on the last word. He looks at you. Really looks. Like the night back in your house, when you staggered home drunk and with the girl's lipstick still on the inside of your upturned shirt collar. 

'I had plenty left.'

You kiss him. It's warm and it lights a fire in your belly, something beautiful in all of this ugliness, something hopeful in desolation. You kiss him and you think you're crying because you have to crane your head a little bit, now, and all he does is stand there, lips slightly parted, and look pretty as you run your fingers through his soft blond hair. You kiss him and it hurts because you're kissing him, your Steve, and not  _your Steve,_ but it's still  _Steve,_ and this all hurts, even to think about.

You only pull away when he starts kissing back.

'Steve, I -'

'I know.' His blues are sad, wide. 'I know, Buck.'

_oh._

'Can we -'

'No.' He looks away, and you remember the knife. Life is funny, sometimes. 'Look, I - I need to go. There's a debriefing in a few. You're welcome to show up.'

'Steve.'

He brushes by you as he moves out of your tent, and you wonder if life is anything more than just hurting and coping.

 

* * *

 

hell, no, you say, breaking a little inside. the little guy from brooklyn who was too 

(goddamned beautiful)

dumb to run away from a fight? i'm following him.

 

* * *

 

Bang.

You snipe the man down from where he crouches, about to do the same to Steve, and the latter shouts, just realising the threat.

_stupid fuckin' captain_

_(i'll kill you if you die but first i'll kiss you till i'm cryin')_

 

* * *

 

You're polishing your rifle when Steve comes in, looking tired as ever. He's chipper these days, brightening whenever he sees Peggy Carter, and part of you loves that he's found someone who'll appreciate him for Steve instead of Captain America. The other part of you is bitter. 

'Evening.'

'You busy?' He says, eyeing the parts in your hand. You put them aside. 

'Not particularly. Just can't stand to see this lady get all dirty.'

He smiles. 

'Always were like that, huh? Treating all your dames just right. Never could stand if they so much as stepped in a puddle, ya idiot.'

Sometimes, the past is painful. Like a double-edged knife.

'S'ppose. Chivalry's not dead an' all. Did you want somethin'?'

'We got a mission early morrow morning. They found somethin', north-west of here. Some HYDRA soldiers camped out in this old nursing home. Our job is to flush 'em out, that's all. Figured I should say somethin', didn't want you lookin' all dumb when we debrief you tomorrow.'

'And the others?'

'They were at the debriefing,' He says, solemn. 'Why weren't you?'

_I saw a new recruit cut himself on a metal knife and ran off to throw up in the woods. I don't know how long I was on my knees, heaving my stomach out for all its worth._

'I forgot. Sue me.'

He smiles.

'At least turn up tomorrow. Can't lose our best sniper, now, can we?'

'High praises, Captain America.' You put your hand on your chest and sway; Steve rolls his eyes to heaven. 'Maybe someday I'll get t' use that pretty frisbee of yours, too. That's a nice thought to hold onto.'

'You're the first person I'd think to pass it onto,' He says, and he doesn't sound like he's joking. You look at him. 'What? We've been through thick and thin, Buck. Hell, slept in the same bed since we were kids. Right, that reminds me -' And he reaches into his jacket, and pulls out a bundle of letters. Your heart leaps into your throat. 'I got all of 'em, you know. Couldn't write back, sometimes: stamps were expensive, and I didn't know what would get held back and why. I missed you. I really did.'

It's been a long time since your second kiss.

'You're such a goddamn sap, Rogers. Save it for the war-bonds speech.'

'Buck,' He says, insistent, and your eyes snap to him. You realise it's an apology. 'I - I did miss you. I care about you, I really do.'

_Just not in that way._

_Not like you care about Peggy Carter._

'Hey,' You say, because you're a stupid idiot who can't let bygones be bygones. 'How about you go and find that pretty lady of yours, huh?' And when he sputters, 'I've seen the way she goddamn looks at you, don't lie to me. C'mon. Dames like her come once in a lifetime. Take her go dancin', or something.'

'Cos you're real smooth with the ladies now, aren't you?'

It's not meant to come across that way, but it hits hard. Ever since you got back from the laboratory, eyes have been on Steve instead of you. Bucky Barnes and his scrawny best friend, now Captain America and Sergeant Barnes. The girls blush when Steve look at them, they put on honeyed voices and use their feminine wiles, but he's only got eyes for that agent, and you find that somehow, you're alright with it. Somehow, it's okay to step out of the spotlight, even if it means leaving so many things behind.

'Sure I am,' You say, and crack a smile. 'Tell you what, after this mission, we're goin' to that nice little bar. Bring Agent Carter, or I'm disownin' you as my best friend.'

 

* * *

 

Sure enough, Peggy shows up on that day, in a gorgeous white dress and heels that could kill a kitten. Steve's hair is slicked back, blue eyes sparkling in the light, and you smile and wave at the pair when they make their way into the room. The music is loud. Your heartbeat is louder. Steve is wearing a shirt that's tight around his abdomen, and fuck if the look on his face isn't the most smitten thing you've ever seen.

Life is funny, sometimes.

'Sergeant Barnes,' She says, amused, when you lift her hand to your lips. 'What a gentleman.'

'Bucky's the furthest thing from a gentleman,' Steve says, and you laugh.

'Talking bad about me in front of a lady? Now, that'll never do.'

'Believe me, he's told me a lot of other things, too.' Peggy's eyes skate over you, drinking you in. 'Most of them good, so don't worry.'

'I'll go get us drinks,' Steve says.

The conversation starts only after he comes back. You exchange quips and do-you-remembers, never mind the fact that the only reason you started reminiscing was so you could feel like you had a piece of Steve only accessible by yourself. Never mind that as the evening goes on Peggy and Steve are drifting closer together. You excuse yourself after a while, find a nice looking dame with a right lovely rack sitting by herself in the corner of the bar. She flutters long eyelashes at you and grins when you buy her a drink, her lipstick dark and enticing.

_(not as enticing as steve's, dark red and flushed out and)_

'Take me home, soldier?' She says, and you snap back. Her lips are on your ear, warm breath raising hairs on the back of your neck. 'I feel like you -' Her hand dances down to the waistband of your pants, slowly, teasingly. '- could use a nice distraction. Hmm?'

'I wish, but I'm afraid I have to go,' You say, peeling yourself away. Steve and Peggy are watching you. You suddenly feel like you've made a fool of yourself. 'Such a shame, though.'

Such a shame. Life is funny, sometimes.

'For a moment there, I thought you were going to take her home,' Peggy says as you sit down, eyes glittering. She's pretty. She's so goddamned pretty. You wish you were her, just for a night, so you could press fierce kisses into the bottom of Steve's jaw and he could kiss back. You shrug, grinning.

'Just wanted to prove a point. Still got it, eh, Steve?'

He's looking at you funny, and that's never good.

'Sure, Buck.'

 

* * *

 

'Hey,' Steve says, from the flap of your tent, and you look up. He's dangling off the pole, looking smug.  

'What's with the face - got yourself a date?'

'Somethin' like that,' He admits.

'Great.' It's not great. You grin. 'Carter finally found her goddamn eyes, huh? Don't know what she's doing lettin' someone like you get away.'

He swallows, flushing, and you have to turn away. It's too much. You barely can hold on to this instance of reality as it is: they're still intent on tracking down Zola, and every time his name is mentioned your stomach does a three-sixty and you want to lose control. Having Steve here, the Steve you know and the Steve you don't in the same headspace, is not helping.

'Thanks, Buck. I found...somethin', I brought here from home.'

'Yeah? Some porn mags, sweetheart?'

'Screw off,' Steve says, and you laugh. He puts something over your shoulders, something warm and heavy and familiar, and you freeze, because this is Brooklyn again, and the night is cold, and Steve's bundling up in your stupid fucking leather jacket and going to sleep and -

'Holy shit,' You say, holding the jacket to you. 'Holy shit, Stevie.'

'You remember how we were talkin' about why I chose to do it?' His eyes are sad, but he's smiling. You wish he didn't look so old. Someone so beautiful shouldn't feel like he has to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, no matter how fucking broad or large they are. 'The serum, I mean. It wasn't about proving myself or whatever, Buck. It wasn't about impressin' no goddamned lady. I still slept with it, after you'd gone. Couldn't fall asleep the same way, somehow.'

It feels like you're treading on broken glass. You bury your nose in the leather and inhale, all the memories of old coming back to you. It hurts. It fucking _hurts._

'Hey,' You say, 'You remember the Christmas I stole a branch off the neighbour's tree just to get that stupid smile on your face?' 

And because you don't know, you don't fucking _know, Steve,_ how to let bygones be bygones, you add:

'And the Christmas we played spin the bottle all alone and you kissed the side of my mouth to be a good sport, and all the girls whooped?'

_And the time I kissed you because I was fucking drunk and you were so fucking pretty?_

_\- and the time you kissed back?_

'Buck, I -'

'I love you.' There it is. Open and vulnerable. You look at him, and you know who you are. What you are. You know that one day one of you will fall before the other, and that the other one will be forced to carry on, to bear through, but you hope to goddamned goodness it won't be you because you'd rather eat the barrel of your gun than carry the weight Steve's casket on your shoulders and the knowledge that you could have saved him. 'Fuck, Steve, I -'

'I know,' He says, and suddenly he's onto you, kissing and grabbing and pushing you down onto cold sheets and you're gasping for air, tugging on his tight uniform and fighting for air in between his kisses.

'Oh, fuck, Stevie -'

'Wanted to get my mouth on you since I saw you in your fuckin' uniform,' Steve says, mouthing at your neck, and you hiss. 'Since before that, when you kissed that girl at Beryl Adamson's party - I wanted to be her, oh my God, Bucky, I -'

'Jesus,' You fall over yourself trying to catch your breath. 'Jesus, Stevie, I needed - I wanted you, ever since fucking high school. You got an asthma attack when the gym teacher made us run laps and I thought you were gonna die and I was so - fuck, Steve - _fuck, I loved you -'_

Fingers undo buttons, lips open and close around each other, drag across trembling skin. 

He touches you and you shudder: not for lack of touch, but because it's Steve. Because it's Steve and he's pressing tiny kisses to the insides of your thighs and looking up at you with that fucking doe-eyed expression on his face, and when he swallows you down you buck and groan. You thread your hands through his hair and pull, push; he bobs under you, sucking and kissing and you're so wrecked when he pulls away, sweat dripping down your back. 

'Steve, Steve, I'm so close, let me see you, let me -'

Steve pulls upwards and you kiss him, grab his face in your hands and devour him. Your hands stray south and the noises he make, Jesus, you could do this forever. You think you could do this forever. You know you could do this forever. One lifetime isn't enough for all the love you have for him, all the love burning inside of you so hot you think the sweat between your skin is less because of the humidity in the tent and because you both are blazing matches and you're burning each other out.

A few languid pumps and his back is arching, sweet Lord, he's so pretty when he's like this. He opens his mouth, a strangled sound of arousal, and you swallow it down with another kiss: you're two lost souls curling in around each other, the only comfort you have left.

He comes with a shudder and you do, too. 

You slump onto the mattress, trying to catch your breath, and Steve's already getting back into his uniform. He brushes down the creases and straightens his stupid fucking cap, and you open your mouth. Say something. Anything.

'Later,' He says, catching you looking. You swipe your hand over your mouth and nod. 

Somehow, even after all this time, you're both still too young and stupid to remember that sometimes, there isn't always another later.

 

* * *

 

You never do say the thing.

A week later, you fall off of Zola's train. Steve screams as he flattens himself against the floor, fingers reaching for something he, hell, yourself, have never been able to hold. 

Then come foreign hands and things prodding into your skin, and then they take James Buchanan Barnes away, and then they take Sergeant Barnes away, and then they take Bucky away, too.

 

* * *

 

there is no memory, you tell sam, in later days. you remember the targets, yes; you remember the handlers and their cold hands on your skin, touching and groping and taking and tearing. you remember the missions, or at least some of them, but you do not remember the people you kill. you do not remember the blood on your hands. you remember staggering back after, to be frozen and wiped all over again, and you remember how the arm fizzed and sparked when you disobeyed, but there is no memory of the winter soldier.

(some part of you is grateful, for that.)

 

* * *

 

You're in the Smithsonian, and you tug your cap over your eyes and your metal arm sparks.

Silly you. Thinking the answers would be here. You already know you are James Buchanan Barnes -  _asset, gift to mankind -_ and you already know your Captain's name. You know that the arm made of silver plates and wiring deep under your phantom skin is not flesh. You know you are a broken machine, something to be removed on sight. You know you do not have a name. And yet you do.

 _James_ sounds wrong, when you say it. It's too hard, the one syllable on your tongue like a bitter taste of -

(of what?)

You blink. You rub your metal arm, a nervous tic. You're not supposed to get nervous tics. You look around, but there's no surveillance. You escaped. There is no mission. There is no - there must be. You stop rubbing. People mill around you, cooing at the exhibits. This feels wrong, standing here; you're older than most of the exhibits anyway.

You step back, and there's a kid beside you. He looks at you. Doesn't recognise you. Good.

'What's your favourite Avenger?' He asks, cheerful, in the way kids are. You look at him. Bile rises in your throat when you realise how your hand is moving - that you want to strangle the life out of him. You move quickly, weaving past crowds to the exit. The space, however large, is claustrophobic. That's a big word. Claustro-claustrophobic. They didn't let you use big words, back then. Russian, quick and simple. English. One syllables, two.  _Go. Wipe him. Mission report. Asset._

You rub a hand over your eyes and something's wet: that's not right, you're not supposed to cry.

'Oh,' You say. It's snowing. You need to get back inside. Snow isn't right, snow -

You start crying because you don't know, you don't  _fucking know, Stevie,_ why snow is bad. You cover your face with your hands and sit down on the sidewalk. People walking by shoot you looks of pity. You hiccup and rub at your arm again. You need to get somewhere. You need to, you need to do something.

'Orders,' You say, because it's rising in your throat anyway. You want to hurl. You keep thinking about blood on the snow and the private's head exploding beside you and getting sick while working on the Valkyrie and the stupid fucking metal table -

'I need to find orders.'

 

* * *

 

you used to wear newspapers in your shoes, you say, and captain's laugh is both heartbreaking and everything you need, right now.

 

* * *

 

He gave up his fucking shield for you. Captain America threw away the only symbol of him ever being a superhero at all for a man who can't even remember his face sometimes, who tried to pull the trigger on him on the bridge, who caused him so much pain and heartbreak and it still is fucking  _killing you._

When you tell him you want to go back into cryo, you know how much he hurts. How much it hurts. Because pain is a double-edged blade, sweetheart, especially when it came to young people - barely, anymore - in love.

'- right now? I mean - I just got you back, Buck.' He looks at you like you're the only good thing left in the world. And that fucking hurts. Because you're not. You're not good, and you don't deserve Steve fucking Rogers treating you like a saint. You turn away, sharply; sometimes the past stings. Sometimes it fucking burns. 'Hey, I mean...I respect your decision. But...can't you give it just a bit more time? I wanted to show you this world, Buck. There's so many...it's so different.'

'I know,' You say. Your voice is like broken glass.

_There're movies now, real actual films with animation and SFX and shit, and queer couples walking down the street and gettin' married, and Disney films, and microwave popcorn, and TV shows and books and ice cream that won't melt and chocolate truffles that don't taste like shit and a different kind of fucking bananas._

Steve stares.

'Bucky -'

'Show me,' You say, and he smiles, and you smile, and it's breaking you apart.

 

* * *

 

You read Harry Potter. And then you watch Harry Potter. And Steve smiles and sighs at all the right parts and you hold him to you and you don't let go.

Star Wars is next.

And then Star Trek.

And Doctor Who.

And Merlin.

And all the different Sherlock spinoffs. (You still like the books best.)

And all the different Disney films.

And you try candy, ones that get stuck in your wooden chompers and ones that turn them a different colour, and these things called gobstoppers that nearly chip your molars in half. 

You live, just for a moment, and it's beautiful.

 

* * *

 

 

'Did you marry her?' You ask, softly, and he looks at you. The sunset is pink against your face. Bathing you in a light that you desperately want to hide from. It makes you think of spotlights on a metal table, and needles to boot. No one fucking knows you're scared of needles. 'Peggy. Did you -'

'No,' He says. 'I would have. I loved her, Buck.'

'I know.'

_I loved you._

_(You never said it back. Not even after the war. And I had you the first time, when we were kids, and then I lost you, and then I got you back and you weren't my Steve anymore, and then you were, and then I lost you again. And now I have you, but you're not even Captain America anymore.)_

Silence for a while. Maybe sometimes silence is good enough. You close your eyes and let it fill you, all the unspoken words and the promises and all the memories; they ram down your throat and fuck if you aren't choking as they bubble out. You don't know how long you stand there, watching the sunset, but you do know when there's a rustle from behind you and Wilson is standing there, eyes a little sad and mouth downturned. 

'We gotta go. Kitty cat says he's picked up on something, they're still tracking Barnes.'

'Maybe it would be easier if I turned myself in,' You muse, and only when Steve makes a noise like he's trodden on glass and steps away from you do you realise you said that aloud. Never was good with the brain-mouth filter, you. 'Steve, I -'

'Stay with me,' He says, and Sam shifts: he seems to be uncomfortable, witnessing this. 'Please. I don't think - Buck, I don't think I can lose you again.'

_(And I can live time and time again, but I'll never really have you till I do.)_

 

* * *

 

You lie awake in open space. Steve reaches for you, and you reach for him, and somehow you find each other, a tangle of limbs on a warm bed. Your arm throbs where it isn't: you can't even rub at the metal stump anymore. You feel like crying. You bury your head in Steve's hair instead, breathing in his scent of lysol. Even after all this time, Captain America still can't use a different fucking soap.

Life is funny, sometimes.

'Steve?' And then, 'I love you.'

And then, because bygones cannot be just fucking bygones, never to James Buchanan fucking Barnes, you say,

'I've loved you for so, so long it fuckin' hurts. You punk.'

He's quiet. Then he shifts, moves a hand to the back of your head and just strokes, somehow, and you feel like you're dying and falling and flying all at once. You're giddy. You want him to touch you like this forever.

'You're really goin' back into cryo,' Steve says, and he's not smoothing down his accent anymore: it's all Brooklyn and Irish and home and  _Steve,_ and you want to cry. 'Soon. You're going to - Fuck. Fuck,' And he's crying, now, and you don't want him to cry. You press your lips where the tears run down his skin. Sharing in this unspoken grieving for people lost and people found, and people never to be uncovered again. You can say and bleed a thousand words and none of them will come close to expressing how many lifetimes you've loved Steve Rogers, and how many lifetimes you've lost him. 'Bucky, I should've looked, in the ice, I should've -'

'Shut up,' You say. You kiss him, kiss his face, kiss his lips, kiss the slowly forming stubble on his chin, kiss the side of his jaw like you promised Peggy's fucking ghost you would for old time's sake, and he kisses back. Slow and hungry and needy, but never impatient. You've both lived too many lifetimes to ever be impatient. 'S nothing you could've done.'

'I th-th-thought I lost ya,' He says. He pulls away and looks at you and it's like those eyes could eat you alive, they could, swallow you into oblivion. He hasn't stuttered - you haven't heard him stutter since you were kids. Had an awful one, in those days.

Your first lifetime.

'Yeah, well, so did I.'

'You f-f-fell,' He says, and your heart twists. You think of the train, think of holding so desperately on, think of looking into Steve's eyes with a thousand words on your lips and saying none as you plummet. You think of  _freight train,_ of  _mission report_ and  _gift to mankind._ 'You fell and I thought - I never said I l-love you, you fuckin' stupid  _idiot, I loved you, I loved you for so, so very long.'_

Maybe there is some poetry in how two people kiss as they cry. Maybe there's a line somewhere in Shakespeare about Romeo breaking down because he's overloading on too much at once after having so much nothing for so fucking long. Maybe there's a line somewhere about Steve Rogers and his perfect pink fucking lips and his eyes when he looks at you, and how he makes your heart want to do good things. How he makes you feel like you can do, and that you are a good thing. 

'In our next life,' You say. 'In our next life - wait for me, please - we can be so much more than just...this.'

'I d-don't know if I can bear waking up another day knowing you're in c-c-cryo again, Buck,' Steve says, warm against your mouth, and you stifle a sob. 'I don't know what I'll do if th-the one time I told you I l-l-loved you you went and fuckin'  _disappeared_ again.'

But he lets you go. And you know, somehow, that someday, someone will fix this, and you will see Steve Rogers again.

Life is funny, sometimes.

 

* * *

 

The elevator ride down is the worst.

'Wait,' Steve says, when the doors ding open. You turn to him. He's been sullen the entire way through, but so desperately trying to hide it. You want to kiss him till he's gaspin', till you change your mind and till you realise how much time you've both been wastin' away, but you smile instead. It cracks open your face. 'Buck, I just wanted to say...whatever happens next, I've got you. You know that? I support you, all the way.'

'Steve -'

'Don't. Don't fuckin' lecture me. I just - I love you. I love you so much. You're not a bad person, Bucky Barnes.' He leans in and kisses you, and even though he does it one more time before you step into the chamber, it's this kiss you focus on when it activates. Steve, telling you you're not a bad person. Steve, kissing you, Steve wanting to kiss you. It's a fucking dream come true, and it feels like you may fall apart any moment, now. 'I'll wait for you. Promise you won't leave me. Not again. Not after - after all this. I ain't waitin' for your stupid ass to die to see you in our next life.'

You laugh, but it's hoarse. 

'I love you.'

'Promise.'

'I  _can't.'_ You've lied too much to a person made of truths. You can't lie to him anymore, not even to yourself. 'I don't know, Steve. I don't know if there'll ever even be a chance for me to come out again, I -'

'I'm promising you there will be.' He knits your hands together, and oh god is he warm. You think about the day your bodies touched, love and lust and everything in between. Warmth, unfurling in your chest, expanding till you're full to bursting. 'Promise me this, at least. Please.'

You think you live between hurting and healing and fucking coping.

'I promise,' You say, and he looks so fucking stubborn it hurts. This is your Steve again. Brooklyn Steve. Alley fights Steve. A little taller and bigger, and the body of a Greek god, yeah, but he's still your Steve. His eyes. His voice. The only thing you could think of on the table, Zola's needles in your arms and legs. 

'I'm holdin' you to it.'

 

* * *

 

one day, you wake up, and steve's smilin' down at you.

'i promised.'


	2. some references and final notes ;)

So I kind of may or may not half assed the German, y'all who speak it, please straighten me out if there is need for it. There's this website I use for complete translations so I don't end up getting a weird sentence out of simply words directly translated from English.

Bucky afraid of needles is not? to my knowledge? canon? so there's a headcanon for ye.

I really want to do a separate fic for after Bucky and Steve run away bc of the Accords because they make no fucking sense to me whatsoever. Ugh, maybe I will soon.

Favourite part about writing this fic: researching army slang. You can find what I did [here.](http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_vault/2013/11/11/military_slang_terms_used_by_soldiers_in_wwii.html) Any mistakes are, of course, my own.

This is unrelated to the fic but if you haven't seen Bucky Barnes Roasting Captain America yet, you're missing out on [a lot of gayness.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6jLhu0FRWE) Please. Also, Casper van Dien is a hot piece of ass, goddamn. 

I can't think of anything else to say but I hope you enjoyed the fic, as always, and you can always hit me up for a chat via [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/smol_asiansatan/) or [Tumblr.](http://theswiftone27.tumblr.com/)

Have a great day!

**Author's Note:**

> Mae West, meaning: A tank with two protuberant turrets.
> 
> Sugar report: Letter from a sweetheart.
> 
> Mitt flopper: A soldier who does favors for his superiors, or salutes unnecessarily; a ‘yes man.’”
> 
> T.S.: “Tough situation! Tough shit!”
> 
> BTO: “’Big time operator’—someone who thinks he is important.”
> 
> SO THAT WAS IT. THAT'S IT FOR ME. THANKS. *SHOOTS SELF* THANKS.  
> Find me on Tumblr @Theswiftone27 or on Instagram @smol_asiansatan. Come say hi, I don't bite. ;)


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